Hobbling Down the Home Stretch

                                             
I got no cast to hold me down, to make me fret, or make me frown. I had a cast, but now I’m free. I got no cast on me! (Nod to Pinocchio)

Pinocchio was obviously from Ohio. How do I know? I’m familiar with the regional linguistics. We Ohio types have a tendency to say “I got” rather than “I Have”. I can narrow it down further to region because of the large Italian population in Youngstown. Geppetto probably had peeps that worked in the steel mills. Although Pinocchio is said to have been made from pine, more likely he was made of buckeye wood. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.


And just like Pinocchio, I got a little too cocky yesterday on my first day of freedom. I thought it would be a good idea to do laundry, clean the utility room, and sweep the carport. The Dr.’s instructions had something to do with elevating my foot and the continued use of one crutch for a couple days. HA! I couldn’t WAIT to actually use two arms to carry stuff while walking at the same time.

My gate is horrendous. When placing the newly designed foot down, I barely rest on it before slapping the other foot down which creates an ungainly limp that usually involves throwing my elbows up like a chicken when taking each step, not unlike Walter Brennen in The Real McCoys. I’m old, so I know who Walter Brennan is. Nanner nanner nanner!

Now my foot is throbbing and looks like a dead thing. It looks like a bad, waxy prop from a B Horror flick. When unwrapping it for the first time I was totally grossed out. There was so much dry skin falling that my bathroom looked a little like the snow flurries I saw on the Today show this morning. Skin fluttered down everywhere whenever I moved. Every time I remove the Ace bandage it snows. My big toe looks like a sausage. The whole top of my foot is vampire-cape-lining purple. I suppose I’ve maybe over-done it.

I really wanted to go back to work today. No really. OK, so don’t believe me. But I think my flapping and hip hitching back and forth to the printer many times a day would be disconcerting. I used to work with a lady who liked to wear those long Maude-like vests. Oh shit. You don’t know who Maude is either! She wore vests that were calf length. Anyway. I remember seeing this co-worker out of the corner of my eye as she cruised past. The vest fluttered like a cape. It was very disconcerting. I like that word. Disconcerting. I also like the word careen. I don’t care for the words puffy and sore, because that is what my foot is now.

I mustn’t look at my left foot and associate it with a grotesque prop. I must visualize what a fine, straight thing it will be when it is fully healed. I pledge to treat it well in the future, even though I’ve abused it since Monday. I will NOT torture it with high heels. High heels are very much like the medieval rack, only smaller. Like the rack, they were designed by men. A woman would not have designed things like racks or guillotines. I’ll go out on a limb and extrapolate that theory to the very first high heel. It seems to me they were designed for men by men originally. Egyptian butchers wore them to stay above the blood and guts all over the floor. Sexy.

When a woman wears high heels her pelvis is thrust forward, throwing the spine into an unnatural state. High heels distribute all of the weight to the ball of the foot. When walking, women are placing approximately two thousand pounds of pressure on the foot, as if they are carrying a baby elephant. (Nod to Dumbo.) But we still wear them to impress men. How fucked is THAT? So my beautiful little left foot will not have to endure such insanity. Not that high heels would do much for me at this stage of the game anyway.

If this foot doesn’t stop throbbing, I’ll have to rate this a one sheet day.